


admiration and cessation

by excalibera



Category: Fresh Meat (TV)
Genre: F/F, Set in the first season; perhaps around the time of the first episode, Vod is here in absentia but is heavily mentioned; Howard mentioned briefly, Voregon is implicit rather than explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4162704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excalibera/pseuds/excalibera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her pursuit of originality, Oregon had been more inauthentic then she had any right to be. Set in the first season, probably very close to the beginning; Voregon implied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	admiration and cessation

**Author's Note:**

> Something silly I wrote at about 2AM when I probably should have been doing something else. On the bright side, it's the first finished work I've come up with for months. Hurrah!

Oregon was a fan of change. Subtle change, superficial change – alterations to appearance and persona. _Although_ , she thought, _is that_ really _superficial? I mean, how different can a persona be before it starts to change your personality_?

Permanent change was daunting. Especially changing something one had confidence in. Oregon didn’t mind and could afford to buy trainers, jewellery and clothes that matched her icons’, but the thought of inking her skin, of cutting her hair – decisions like those were decisions she couldn’t make with any sort of flippancy.

There was a sort of sentimentality to tattoos. Oregon could surmise that much. But did Vod ink her skin with any sort of romantic notion in mind? That didn’t seem much like her at all, so didn’t that mean that it wouldn’t matter if Oregon’s prospective tattoo had no real reason behind it beyond being proof of admiration? But Oregon didn’t _want_ to permanently mar her skin with a meaningless symbol. It wasn’t like some trinket she could put on and take off whenever she wanted. It was a mark. A self-inflicted _battle wound_. Perhaps _that_ was romantic – although, was it _really_ , if it had no true meaning to it?

But Vod _wasn’t_ romantic. That was the point. She took irreversible damage in the same breath as a scratch that’d clear within a day. _That_ was what Oregon aspired to. There was a solidity in Vod that she gravitated towards. _It isn’t just Vod, though_ , she argued, _I’ve always been that way._ Everyone _is that way. We just gravitate towards the ones that make a mark in the world._ But she was quick to assert to herself that she didn’t just want to follow those people – she wanted to be like them, too. Learning by imitation was normal, wasn’t it? _That’s how children learn to speak and to communicate._

_Not that I’m a child._

Most importantly, though, what would Oregon even get? A symbol of the romantics, of poetry? A pen whose shadow was shaped like a sword, to symbolise the sword’s weakness in the face of the pen? But that was still too generic. The closest she got to settling on an idea for a tattoo was some sort of sign of impermanence and identity – of her struggle to build not just her image, but a sense of who she was, and that identity was never a solid thing but was shaped by life. As soon as she came up with the idea, though, Oregon rather began to wish she hadn’t. It was a symbol, a depiction, of her own lack of identity. And why would she want that to mark her body forever? It even contradicted the purpose of a tattoo. What would she tell people it was about? Why was her defining factor a lack of definition? _But it isn’t, really,_ Oregon thought; _we all learn by imitation. I shouldn’t be afraid of what defines me. And yet…_

Oregon did not want to tattoo that on herself. A tattoo should be sign of pride, of victory. Hers would be a source of shame. The simple fact of the matter was that as of yet, Oregon didn’t feel that there was any battle that she had overcome; there was no symbol to mark something she felt she was working to beat. She had no grounds to get a tattoo.

_Hair_ , she thought, _that’s different. That’s impermanent. If I don’t like it, it’ll just grow back within the year._

She stared at her reflection, and ran her fingers through her hair. It did _need_ a cut. It was wispy, wavy, and thin; years of abusing it with cheap hairspray and straighteners, urging it to stick to a late-2000s scene style in her mid-teens, had taken their toll. Its colour was fairly unremarkable, as well – a boring brown.

She bent down and opened the cabinet under the sink. She searched for a moment, and grabbed a pair of small, rusted bathroom scissors. She stood up, and held them to her hair. Again, her eyes caught her reflection’s, and she took the scissors away from her hair. She remembered several instances where, after she stopped trying to push her hair into American-imported scene styles, her mother and a few of her teachers had remarked that her natural hair made her resemble a romantic poet; a painting. She felt immensely proud of that. And to an extent, it was true; she _did_ have that wistful, poetic look about her. To cut her hair short would be to rob herself of that quality. It would mark the start of a transition into a harsher, more brutal character.

(It kept coming back to this. Oregon was a romantic. Oregon wanted to be a romantic. But Oregon also wanted to be like Vod, and Vod was defined, in part, by a lack of romance.)

_And besides_ , she told herself, _I don’t want to cut my hair with scissors Howard has probably used to cut his pubes. I want to get it done at a proper salon_ … _although,_ she raised the scissors to her hair again, _I doubt Vod can afford to get it done at a salon…_

She squinted at her reflection. _What do you think,_ she asked it. A pause. _Oh, God,_ she thought. _I’m going mad._

She held the scissors to her hair for one, two, three seconds, before she was interrupted by two sharp knocks on the bathroom door. She gasped, and the scissors fell out of her hand and clattered into the sink.

From outside the door came a muffled, “Hello? Who’s in there? You’ve been in there for ages. My bladder is like, _swelling_ with urine, and if my magic-stick explodes, it will be _your_ fault. Just so you know.”

“JP?” Oregon said incredulously, more to herself than to anyone else.

“Uh. Yeah. Sorry, is that Oregon? Did you hear what I said? Howard is reading some awful tome on the lav. I’m sure he’s making a personal attack on me. I _tried_ to go in there to shower, but the stench and ambience was totally unbearable. So now I need to have a wash and relieve myself, and in the face of my needs, your time is up.”

Oregon shook her head and laughed silently. “Sorry, I’ll be out in a second.”

Oregon glanced at her reflection one last time. She stroked the lengths of her hair thoughtfully. _Maybe I’m not ready to cut it just yet,_ she decided. _And besides, I quite like it as it is._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after binge-watching series one of Fresh Meat (obviously). I wish I had taken more time to analyse it and perfect Oregon's inner voice, but I think I got her inner dilemmas down, and I do spend too much time fussing over things like this. And yes, I know that Oregon cuts her hair later on in the show - intentional references are made throughout this! I am prone to fawning over relationships, but I tried to be realistic this time and sort of imply the mega-crush Oregon seems to have on Vod rather than make something like I Love Vod...I will BE Vod (even though that is sort of accurate)
> 
> I should probably be doing something else right now, too. I should be packing! I'm heading home after my first year at university, ironically. The drawer is unfortunately suddenly sporting a crack. No idea how it got there. Hoping I don't get fined. The cast of Fresh Meat live a much cooler life than I do but in all honesty I feel like they are all terribly awkward; moreso than me. It's a bit of a paradox IMHO but you know.
> 
> ANYWAY...if you fancy asking me some questions or just chatting about this fic, hit me up on my writing blog; http://excalibera.tumblr.com! Love


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